


Desperate Times, Desperate Measures: How Hermione Granger Lost It On A Shop Table

by Meilan_Firaga



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: samhain_smut, F/M, Inferi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:33:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2179845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/pseuds/Meilan_Firaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is crawling with spell-mutated inferi, and Hermione Granger has reached a breaking point.</p>
<p>Written for the 2013 Samhain Smut over on LJ. Apparently, I completely forgot to go a-posting after reveals. XD My prompt was: In the midst of a zombie (or inferi!) apocalypse, one person decides she/he does not want to die a virgin. </p>
<p>Possibly dub-con if you consider grief and/or dire circumstances to be a coercive assistant.</p>
<p>There’s some minor Ron-bashing that I swear was entirely unintentional. I don’t dislike Ron, but for some reason this story demanded some snark be applied to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate Times, Desperate Measures: How Hermione Granger Lost It On A Shop Table

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Desperate Times, Desperate Measures: How Hermione Granger Lost It On A Shop Table  
> Author: [demented_mei](http://demented_mei.livejournal.com)  
> Prompt # 108; In the midst of a zombie (or inferi!) apocalypse, one person decides she/he does not want to die a virgin.   
> Pairing(s)/Character(s): George Weasley/Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley  
> Rating: R  
> Summary: The world is crawling with spell-mutated inferi, and Hermione Granger has reached a breaking point.  
> Word Count: 1,667 (somehow, I managed the perfect NaNoWriMo daily count without even trying XD)  
> Warnings: character death, possibly dub-con if you consider grief and/or dire circumstances to be a coercive assistant  
> Author's notes: There’s some minor Ron-bashing that I swear was entirely unintentional. I don’t dislike Ron, but for some reason this story demanded some snark be applied to him.

Of all the things I may or may not have suspected would one day be the end to our world as a whole, I am thoroughly disgusted to find that decades of muggle pop culture idiocy surrounding the prospect of a “zombie apocalypse” would turn out to be the closest thing to accurate. Even though these are inferi-gone-wrong rather than your typical Romero-style shambling dullards driven by a hunger for brains or human flesh, it was close enough. Muggles everywhere were amazed to discover that a bullet to the head was not the answer. Not even one member of the Ministry’s upper echelon thought it might prove useful to inform them that fire was the trick they were looking for. Disgusting.  
  
Now, however, there were far more pressing things on my mind. I survived one war without succumbing to the desperate desire to rid myself of my virginity. After watching Ron get himself ripped into three pieces by a mob of animated corpses in the middle of Diagon Alley that desperation was kicking in. Seeing your boyfriend die and realizing that your last chance of a good fucking may have died with him will do that to you.  
  
Really, it’s only due to the blessing of a practical mind (or possibly latent psychosis) kicking in that I’m this disgusted rather than crying in a toilet like most of the women I went to school with are doing at this very moment. The ones that are still alive, that is.  
  
Yanking up my wand and cutting off the jet of flame I’d used to roast Ron and his--well, I guess they could still count as ‘murderers’--I turned and bolted toward Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Without a brand from me, Ron, or George you’d find yourself splinched on the ground at Stonehenge if you tried to pass through the solid foot of steel we’d grafted onto the outer walls. I slipped through like a metal spoon into a bowl of pudding, tossed the knapsack of supplies I’d been carrying into a corner, and stomped straight toward the back workroom. The main floor of the shop was littered with various refugees on sleeping pallets, most of which jumped to their feet upon noticing me and proceeded to pepper me with questions. I ignored all of them, stalking into the workroom and slamming the door with a force that would have made Severus Snape proud.  
  
George Weasley jumped half a foot into the air, whipping around to fix me with owlish blue eyes. I never lost momentum, continuing my stomp straight across the room to where he stood and reaching past the table he was working at to slide my hand into the hideaway in the wall glamoured to look like the same stone as the rest of the interior. My fingers closed on a bottle--any bottle, this wasn’t the time to be particular--and it was only seconds before I was sitting on the edge of the table with two swallows of Firewhiskey already down my throat. I stared at George, sure that any second my eyes would burn a hole right through him. He was shorter and stockier than Ron, but the desperation of the last month hadn’t done anything to change how handsome he was.  
  
“Hermione?” Ah, his voice finally caught up. ‘Bout time. “Why are you covered in blood?” I looked down. Sure enough, the blouse and denims I was wearing were liberally splattered with bright, slowly drying blood. I could only imagine what my face and intolerable hair looked like. I needed to handle this carefully. George had already lost a lot before this disaster happened.  
  
“Arterial spray. Ron’s gone.” Good on you, Hermione. Perfectly sensitive that was. Three more hard swallows of Firewhiskey chased one another to my stomach. As I lowered the bottle from my lips I found it snatched away and the golden liquid within poured into the thief’s own gullet. One little apocalypse and everyone’s manners go straight out the window. I said as much to George and was granted a brittle laugh completely devoid of humor as he passed the bottle back. While I took another drink, the rough alcohol finally starting to dim my raw emotions with blissful numbness, he lifted his wand from the table beside my hip and cast a wordless ‘scourgify’. The tightness that had begun on my face and arms as a result of the drying blood vanished.  
  
We drank in silence for a long while, George leaning against his work table while I sat atop it. I drank enough that I couldn’t quite be sure how much time had passed before my mind lost control of my tongue and I blurted out the dreadful thought that plague my mind. “Brightest witch of my age and I’m still going to die a sodding virgin.”  
  
"You're not going to die, Hermione." His response was automatic, the same one we all gave to someone when we weren't really listening to their hysterics, but the bright flush that went straight to the tips of his ears said that he'd heard me perfectly well. The fact that he didn't call attention to it gave my addled brain the hope that he didn't think of me as much like a sister as Ginny and might be amenable to the good rogering I was looking for. After all, were any one of the Weasley brothers to hear such comments from Ginny they would erupt in immediate protest of those things even crossing her mind. Little sisters are supposed to be sweet and innocent, you know.  
  
After eyeballing the bottle of Firewhiskey--a task that required no small amount of focus--I found that barely a quarter of it remained. Filled with a sudden, somewhat insane amount of pride in my alcohol tolerance, I threw caution to the wind. Moving my leg just enough that its brush against his thigh might seem accidental, I voiced my innermost thoughts. "You could fix it for me."  
  
George's rough swallow was audible. So was the brief fit of coughing that followed. "You want me to kill you?" he asked.  
  
Okay, whoever decided that the concept of 'hard to get' should be appealing deserves sexual mutilation. "George Weasley, if you ever had any love for Ronald you will honor his memory by shagging his fiancee rotten!" We hadn't been engaged, and a fuzzy voice in the back of my head insisted that it would fill me with guilt later, but as my outburst had the desired effect I really couldn't be bothered to care.  
  
The bottle of Firewhiskey shattered against the stone floor with a near-musical tinkling of glass. I found my knees shoved roughly apart and George's hips inserted between them. One of his hands fisted in what I tried to pass off as hair while the other made quick work of the button on my denims. I'd been kissed before, but nothing had ever seemed quite this wild. My bottom lip stung as George tugged it between his teeth, a hint of the coppery taste of blood mingling with the taste of him when our tongues met. I responded in kind, my nails digging through his shirt to leave tiny crescent moons imprinted upon his shoulder blades. His hand slipped past the open waist of my denims and wasted no time in delving into my knickers. My head tilted back at the first touch of his fingers, his next words nearly drowned out by a breathy moan I wasn't sure I'd made.  
  
"Merlin, Hermione, you're already soaked." Before I could even consider responding his lips and teeth attacked my throat. Desperate, I dragged my hands from his shoulders to the button at the front of his trousers. Whether by the grace of distraction or some unknown magic specifically created to prevent females from opening men's trousers, I could not reach my goal no matter how hard I tried. Finally, cursing aloud in a fit of frustration, I reached for my wand and vanished both of our clothing in the blink of an eye. With serious disregard to the care of my wand, I let it slip from my fingers and wrapped my hand around the hard cock George's trousers had been determined to keep me from.  
  
The next several seconds were a blur. George let out a groan that was somehow sexier than anything books had ever described. My hand was snatched away and pinned behind my back. I felt a short instance of pressure, a strange stretching sensation, and then an indescribable fullness. Pressed fully against me, George panted into the hollow of my throat. He scrambled for words, trying to voice a question. Finally, he pressed a kiss to my collarbone and managed to get it out. "I thought you said you were a virgin."  
  
Oh. Right. Tampons. That explanation might kill the mood. "Muggle thing," I muttered, giving an experimental wiggle of my hips that elicited another ragged groan. "I'll explain it later, but if you stop I will hex you from here to Edinburgh." He took that at face value.  
  
It wasn't sweet. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't anything like I had ever imagined my first time would be.  
  
It was exactly what I needed.  
  
The next morning I awoke with a dry mouth, an aching heart, soreness in places that I didn't know could get sore, and the mother of all headaches. The voice that had gone fuzzy and quiet the night before now raged over my idiocy and insensitivity. Beside me, George stirred. We were lying naked on the workroom floor, covered only with a spare robe. I opened my mouth, ready to express every last bit of guilt that was plaguing me. George clapped a hand over my mouth, turning my face until I was looking directly into his eyes.  
  
"No, Hermione," he told me firmly. "No guilt and no apologies. I know better than anyone: grief does strange things. Now, explain this muggle thing you wouldn't tell me about last night."


End file.
